


With Eyes Closed and Deep Inside

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor together, from each POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Eyes Closed and Deep Inside

Sansa continued to stare out of the open window, seemingly unconcerned with the snow blowing into the room. The door opened and closed, and heavy footsteps the rushes couldn't muffle approached her. She still didn't move. She was supposed to be safe here, but the truth was she had never been safe since she left Winterfell as a little girl. Outside the snow was thick on the ground, and she wondered what it would be like to go out there and just stand still, letting the snow fall around her and on her until she disappeared.

The intruder touched her hair, his breathing growing louder. It was a man, she knew. The footsteps had been too heavy for a woman, and she'd heard the soft clatter of a sheathed sword jostling as he walked. It wasn't her father; Petyr's footsteps were light and he never wore a sword. The hand in her hair tightened, yanking until she tilted her head back to alleviate the pain in her scalp. The room was dark, but Sansa shut her eyes anyway. If she was wrong, she could pretend she was right.

A single rough finger traced the lines of her face, lingering at her lips. She parted her lips and he slipped his finger into her mouth. She sucked it instinctively, and wondered why she wasn't horrified at the thought of what else he might make her suck. He pulled his finger away suddenly, and a hand seized her throat. He turned her around to face him and she chose to move rather than choke. But he couldn't make her open her eyes and look at him.

He kissed her hard, his mouth tasting of wine. She liked that; it was _right_. She put her hands out, groping blindly until her arms encircled his neck and held him close. He kissed her even more desperately then, his arms crushing her against his powerful body. She always went numb when Littlefinger touched her, but lying in bed with her fantasies and memories, Sansa had learned what arousal felt like. Her breasts ached and she needed to wrap her legs around him.

Not a moment too soon he picked her up around the waist and carried her to the bed as if she weighed no more than a doll. She reached behind her to unlace her gown, but he was impatient. He tore open the front of her dress, baring nipples that had gone hard the moment he touched her. She remembered what it had felt like to be flat on her back with the Hound above her the night of that terrible battle. She'd tried to recapture that feeling over the years, but her memory had dulled over time. She shoved at him, and he pinned her hands to the bed as she'd hoped he would. She licked her lips and arched her back, offering herself to him, wanting him to do something, anything.

He had just taken one of her nipples into his mouth when two giggling maids entered the room. They shrieked when they saw what they had interrupted and one of them dropped her candle. The other did not, and the light that candle provided was enough for Sansa to see the scarred visage of the man beside her.

"Go away and keep your mouths shut if you want to keep your tongues," the Champion of the Faith rasped harshly at the maids. Both women turned and fled.

"It _is_ you," Sansa said.

Sandor Clegane laughed. "Who did you expect, little bird?"

"I heard you'd died or you'd become an outlaw. Some people said you hanged the Freys and others said you did terrible things at Saltpans. I never thought you'd turned holy." She had hoped though, as unrealistic as it had seemed, when she'd glimpsed the big hooded brother leading the groups of knights who'd asked for shelter at the castle.

"Me _holy_?" He laughed even harder. "Pretty little bird, what god would choose _me_ as their champion? There are no gods; I've told you that before."

She had dreamt of seeing him again, but she had never truly expected it to happen. In her dreams they made love and then she awoke; there was never anything else to consider. Would he save her? Did she need to be saved? Sansa didn't know what would happen after, but she knew what she needed now. She pulled her torn gown over her head and tossed it away, her underthings quickly following. Then she settled back against the pillows and waited for him.

-

He'd rather not have stayed at Littlefinger's castle, but he knew better than to insist his men camp out in a blizzard when there was shelter available. Besides, it was unlikely Littlefinger would uncover his secret. The hood of his cloak kept his face well hidden and anyway no one would ever look for the Hound among a band of knights sworn to the Faith.

Littlefinger's secret, however, was easy for him to discover. Littlefinger kept her in plain sight, introducing her as his natural daughter Alayne. Even with her hair dyed brown Sandor would have recognized Sansa Stark anywhere. It had been nearly four years since he'd last seen her, but he had thought about her every day and her face was clear in his memory.

He'd promised the Elder Brother that he would never get drunk again, that he'd never drink more a single cup of wine, and Sandor had mostly kept that promise. But tonight he finished off a whole flagon by himself. He had told the Elder Brother, Septon Meribald, and even the High Septon about the little bird. He had made confession after confession; he was so very sorry he had never saved her and sorry he had threatened her and forced her to sing for him. But he always held one confession back: he was sorry he hadn't taken her when he'd had the chance.

When she left the hall, he followed her. He stood outside the door for a long time, trying to decide what to do. What he wanted to do was push her down on her bed and spread her legs. What he should do was ask her how she was and offer to take her away from Littlefinger.

She didn't react when he entered the room. Did she expect her "father"? The thought made Sandor angry. Littlefinger was no better than he; he had no more right to her. If he'd had her, there was no reason Sandor couldn't have her too.

He touched her hair and she still ignored him. He seized a handful of hair and yanked sharply, making her gasp in pain. With her head tilted like this he could see her face. She had closed her eyes. She never had been able to look at his scarred face, not unless he forced her. Her skin was even softer and smoother than he remembered. Her mouth opened when he stroked her lips and she sucked his finger when he slid it inside. Arousal and fury both swept through him; arousal at the feeling and the anticipation of her mouth on his cock, and fury at the thought of where and how she'd learned to use her mouth like that.

He grabbed her throat and forced her to turn around to face him. She still hadn't opened her eyes. He wanted to hit her, but he could never do that, not even when the king ordered him to. He kissed her, and to his shock she kissed him back and embraced him. Who did she think he was? Did she even care? He threw her onto the bed and ripped open the bodice of her gown. She tried to push him away then, but he caught her small hands and held them down beside her. She arched against him when he bent to taste the tip of one pretty teat.

Sandor wondered whether she was pretending he was the Knight of Flowers. The thought made him chuckle unpleasantly. Loras Tyrell was burned uglier than him now; she wouldn't want him anymore if she saw him. When the maids intruded on them with their candles and she saw his face, he was surprised she didn't flee. She held his gaze all the while she removed her clothes, and when she was naked she beckoned to him.

If she only pretended to want him and be pleased by him, she did a better job than any whore he had ever paid. She griped his hair to keep him at her breasts, moaning, and her cunt was already wet when he slipped his hand between her legs. He shoved his cock inside her with one deep thrust, and then he stayed still for a long moment. He was inside Sansa and her arms were around him, and her eyes were open and looking up at him. The High Septon had spoken of ecstasy that transcended mortal flesh. The old man could keep his prayers and his gods; Sandor had _this_.

"Little bird," he rasped. He needed to be sure she saw and felt _him_ as he fucked her. She had never called him by his name, always addressing him as a lord or knight though he was neither. He needed to hear her say it now. "Say my name."

"Sandor," she whispered, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.

She was his now and he would _never_ let her go again.


End file.
